


very bad boy

by ideal_girl (trainwreckdress)



Category: Actor RPF, Alexander (2004)
Genre: F/M, Filming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-02-18
Updated: 2004-02-18
Packaged: 2017-10-17 23:20:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trainwreckdress/pseuds/ideal_girl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He clears his throat and she looks up at him, but it's not her, it's his Mum and he's been a very bad boy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	very bad boy

[2:37pm]

He's not quite sure what the hell he's doing (wouldn't be the first time), but his pants are 'round his ankles, skirt bunched up 'round his waist (er, right, also not the first time for that one), and he's got all eyes on him, the cast and crew in a collective uproar, laughing and smiling (again, old hat).

Well, collective minus one. She never looks. He's still trying to figure that one out.

He smiles, wide and full and wicked, hamming it up as he rucks his pants back up, lips pursed around a burning cigarette his doting and scared-shitless assistant had pressed between his fingers the second Stone yelled "Cut!" and stomped off to shout at someone important looking in a suit.

"Oh, all right, then," he mutters, under his breath, puffs of smoke blurring his vision, ash dripping onto his rough-hewn costume. A clucking, and it's the costumer, brushing him off and admonishing him with a heavy accent and brisk hand strokes. Cigarette clutched firmly, he spreads his arms wide, cocks his head and sighs, a bit melodramatic, he knows, but he's looking for it, for _her_ attention, and she's not giving it to him, and it's pissing him off more than he's ready or willing to admit.

The costumer is done and Stone is back, gaffers hoisting complicated looking contraptions and people calling places and his assistant stealing his cigarette.

"I wasn't done with that!" Palm to forehead, hip cocked, knee bent out, breeze up his legs.

A whoosh and the smell of hot sand, dark hairs trailing on his forearm as she moves past him toward the divan at the center of the set. "You're done now."

His hand falls slack, bumping against his thigh. He watches as she sits, let's others move her robes and hair and arms and legs into the perfect position, sees the defiant lift of her chin, the dark angular slashes of her eyebrows and wonders when the fuck he became a poet. His eyes flit down to her red mouth, the divot separating her impossibly real bottom lip, the one he's had many a thought about since first meeting her in Paris, catching the corner of her mouth on his, feeling his stubble scrape against her lips, remembers their surprising resilience.

He's staring, but he knows it, tries to stop, but knows he can't, so he just waves off his assistant's offer of water, forces himself to put one foot in front of the other and take his place for the scene.

He clears his throat and she looks up at him, but it's not her, it's his Mum and he's been a very bad boy.

*

Another day, another dollar, and another trip to the pub's in order, so he lifts up his bag, bids adieu to his bevy of assistants, slaps the oldest one on the ass for good measure, gives a folded up square of paper to the youngest with terse instructions, and steps out into the hot street. The sun's nearly down, the air thick and syrupy like it's waiting for a breeze and all he's waiting for is some dinner and a fucking drink.

The valet pops out of his car, tips his hat and looks down at the ground, nodding and murmuring something about "Have a nice night, Mr. Farrell."

Bag thrown into the boot, he slides into the driver's seat, cold air thrown off the dashboard stinging his eyes.

"Well, for fuck's sake." He turns down the air, flips on the lights and waves a cheery goodbye to the valet. "Thinks I'm an Eskimo, that one."

Shuffle, flip, snickt and he's burning, tip of his tongue pressed up against the cotton-wad filter of his cigarette. Stops for a mess of tourist-types jaywalking, drums his fingers against the steering wheel, tries not to think about fucking the teenaged daughter clinging to her father's arm, instead decides to think about fucking the son, older, uni-bound and sulking at the back of the pack. Dark hooded eyes and hands jammed into his pockets, kitten hair a fringe of crazy and he realizes with a groan that he's fucking staring again, because the kid is looking at him with something akin to recognition and surprise and hunger and that's it _– that's fucking it –_ he needs to get laid.

The tires squeal when he takes off down the street, careening toward his flat, ash feathering on his jeans.

*

"What the fuck am I payin' you for?!" A pause, a drag, a sip. "Just fucking give her the fucking note, okay? I'll be there at 8."

*

He's still nursing his first drink, a cloudy amber-colored whiskey, liquid made warm by his hand curved 'round the glass. Cigarettes, though, he's running low, so he waves the waiter over, presses a bill in his hand, taps the empty pack, smiles. Nods and grins and waves and the white-clad boy is through the door, loping across the street.

"Do people always do what you ask them to?" She slides into the seat opposite him, her arms and legs folded in on themselves, shoulders rigid. "Or does money have to be involved?"

A smirk, he feels it, tries to push it down, but loses. "Very rarely." The cigarette's done for, so he stubs it out in the ashtray, already overflowing with smoked-down nubs.

He can tell she's watching his movements, her own body language adjusting to his, trying to match his tenor, his mood. He's seen her do it on set, with her son, with Stone in meetings, hell, even in pictures of her with those government types, knows it's how she makes the other person feel calm and soothed right before she pulls what she wants and needs from them, be it a smile or a nod or a yes or a million bucks.

She doesn't look him in the eye, though, her head turned toward the bar, fingers up. The bartender nods and she orders something in an unfamiliar language, a drink that makes the bartender laugh and her smile in return. She turns back, lips still curved, chin dropped to her chest, one hand firmly wedged between the knees of her crossed legs, the other letting fingers trace patterns on the table. She laughs, a chuff, quiet and soft, fingers falling still, palm pressed up against the table.

"This better be good, Colin," she says, eyes still on the table. "You're lucky that my mom's here, willing to take care of Mad, but still." She looks up - _Finally,_ he thinks - meets his eyes without a hint of Olympias behind them – _Yes, yes,_ he continues – and smirks, a smudged twist of what he's used to seeing in the mirror. "A note? Are we teenagers?"

*

They drink and smoke and talk, abandoning the bar after a handful of drinks and packful of cigarettes, take to the streets and walk without purpose, her hands stuffed deep in her pockets, chin to her chest as she talks, eyes trained on the ground. He hops and jumps and climbs over every obstacle, cars and newspaper machines, swinging himself around poles and waste bins and dancing to the street musicians. His efforts are met with smiles and laughter, clapping mirth, her mouth open in exclamation, fingers and wrists wiping away tears.

"Why aren't you like this all the time?" he asks at one point, can't remember exactly when, but thinks it was between hiding behind the sand-blasted obelisk in a forgotten square and climbing over the mini parked up on the curb in front of a flower shop.

She shrugs and raises her eyes to the sky for a moment, drops them down to his face, smiles. "Why aren't _you_ like this all the time?"

*

It's ridiculously late when he follows her to her door, but cars are still beeping on the street behind him, shouting and laughter and crying filtering up from the main thoroughfare. She shakes out a single key attached to a small chain, grasps the door handle with one hand and carefully inserts and turns the key, which disappears back into her pocket as she turns and leans against the red-painted door.

"Well, then," she says and he does it, _just fucking does it,_ presses her up against the door with his body, feels the red paint underneath his fingertips as his hands skitter down to find hers, his lips on hers, on those fucking impossibly beautiful and unreal lips, and she's kissing him back, tongue and lips and _– whoa –_ teeth, and something unhinges in his chest and rumbles up into his throat, sound and vibration traveling from his lips to hers and back again. He's dizzy and needs to breath, but doesn't care, can't care, because she's kissing him back, her fingers tight as silver around his, and she's pulling it out of him, that noise, that reaction, that fucking white-hot need that he hasn't been able to understand or control since that first time she smiled at him, all demure but _not,_ off-limits but _touch-me-there._

She pulls back, breathing hard, her head clunking on the door and chin pressed to his chest and he tries to speak, say something, anything, but she's like a fucking _growl_ or a _moan_ or something he can't even fucking describe, so he just stands there, gripping her fingers just as hard, his mouth open and the taste of copper on his tongue.

Later, a second a minute a who-the-fuck-knows later, she looks at him, lips bite-red and eyes dark. "Thanks for the note. See you t'morrow," she says, or at least he thinks she says, because she's twisting and slipping, opening and closing, leaving and disappearing, turning and clicking, and he's standing and panting, bleeding and screaming, and just – _just, fuck!_

And he's not quite sure what the hell he's doing (wouldn't be the first time), but he's walking back to the car with his pants pulling and pushing in all the wrong places (er, right, also not the first time for that one), and he's laughing at himself like he's a fucking nutter (again, old hat).

[4:05pm]

**Author's Note:**

> Colin/Angelina – wicked, sting, obelisk - [letters challenge](http://www.livejournal.com/community/contrelamontre/556680.html?style=mine), unbeta'd


End file.
